Vast brush strokes of stars swept the moonless night like the trail of Onyadi’s crystalline breath when the God of Wind blew Earth into shape. Only the waves responded to the cry over the deserted beach, but even the moon was too shy to be final witness and she turned her ivory eye away from the tattered shapes on the sand, hiding behind a cloud. The battle field lay strewn with the carcasses of the young and old, enemy and ally alike whose military colors dissolved under death’s unifying, glistening camouflage. Only the weeping , only the weeping carried over the tide’s cruel indifference and the stars’ cold stares, but not even Her weeping could reach across the galaxies to return the lives She had shed in that moment of folly.
The news of the battle and the subsequent massacre spread like wildfire through the coastal hamlets, and the wind carried the air of viciousness back into the heartland to stoke the anger that had grown amongst populace. “Bitch…”…”witch”….Bitch…When the Governor finally heard the whispered venom that traveled into his palace on the loose lips of one of his regular whores, he understood the time had come for the guillotine, that favorite of French toys, to end the life of the one being on earth he feared above all else. She was going to die, the people finally hated her and everything she stood for, she couldn’t even leave the island if she wanted to, the fisherfolk feared her more than the land people. That night, he fucked with a ferocity his surprised courtesan failed to match despite her usual prowess and after she was dispatched, the Governor of the largest Negro plantation island in the Western Hemisphere slept for the first time []. “She’s going to die” was his final thought before the insomnia foretold at the time of his birth dissipated like the fog of a tempestuous season. The bitch is finally going to die.
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